


the lips that once expressed love are now like a knife in my heart

by l0velikeoxygen



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Cults, Drug Withdrawal, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 14:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l0velikeoxygen/pseuds/l0velikeoxygen
Summary: Renjun was encouraged to be social. He was encouraged to be more confident. He wasnotencouraged to become tangled in some weird, confusing web of lies.Oh, and he certainly didn't intend to become involved with Lucas Huang.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yo wassup im BORED. hope u enjoy ~ i will update Honestly!!!!!! i promise. i really promise.

**1**

Honestly, Renjun wishes that his parents would have just paid, like, an extra few bucks so that he could have had a private room. It wasn't even as though they couldn't afford it, either. He's not bitter that there was no prior discussion, just a full-on conversation about his living arrangements that began with something along the lines of, “Your father and I think that it would be a good idea for you to share a room to improve your social skills.”

And that was that. They might as well have said _you're pathetically inept at making friends, so we're going to force you into a scenario wherein which you'll have no choice but to make peace with your roommates_. That's the problem, not his lack of an ability to be “friendly” or “good-natured” or, for that matter, “a nice person” – the assumption that everything can be solved by social interaction. It's total bullshit. _People_ are total bullshit. 

It's just so unfair. They say that the best people have the worst lives, and Renjun is starting to believe that such a saying has some substance to it. Maybe he should have taken Psychology or something – then again, _anything_ is more interesting than Biomedical Science. Anything. Studying snails might've been more interesting than that, even. His parents missed the mark when he showed absolute zero interest in the sciences throughout high school, always gravitating towards languages instead, and therefore when they elected that he would be doing Biology or whatever for the rest of his life, they _really_ missed the mark.

Totally. Totally missed the fucking mark. They saw the mark, aimed towards it, then purposefully turned around and shot in the other direction entirely. That's beyond the point, of course, because arguing with his parents is a stalemate. He'll never win.

Speaking of not winning, sharing a room with a complete asshole would be one thing. Sharing a room with one of those stereotypical American boys who drink from red cups and wear tank tips would be another thing. He’d even contemplated what would happen if he ended up having to share a room with one of those faux-deep, “I have a Tumblr and you can immediately tell from my awful sense of humour ripped straight from shitposts” guys, but nobody could compare to this. One the one hand, he's Chinese too. On the other hand, Lucas Huang is a complete tool. Renjun really can't win. 

“For fuck’s sake, you can't put that lamp there! It totally fucks with the entire room,” Renjun complains, snatching away the lamp that Lucas just placed down on the shelf. Honestly, Renjun didn't know he was this particular about decor until this point in his life; nothing ever particularly had an order in his bedroom, it all just fell into place. It's just that Renjun has suddenly discovered how terrible Lucas’ sense of decor and, in general, sense of _everything_ is god-awful. If only he could just learn to compromise – and by compromise, Renjun means _shut up and listen_. 

“It’s just a lamp,” Lucas sighs. “Not a big deal. Do you have to be so twitchy?”

Renjun shakes his head. “I'm not twitchy.”

“Alright, twitchy,” Lucas laughs. He doesn't move the lamp back, much to Renjun's pleasure, but instead moves into his designated half of the room. Renjun knows that he can't touch that, so he just sits in complete disbelief and horror as Lucas _tapes_ (oh God, the poor wallpaper) a picture of Kwon Yuri to his wall (it’s fine, but not fine at the same time), a ripped schedule of the nearest timetable of parties, and, like a cherry on top, a poster saying **COMMON SENSE IS THE MOST LIMITED OF ALL NATURAL RESOURCES**. Renjun sees two main flaws in that quote – number one; he's pretty sure that the most limited natural resources is, like, coal or something, and number two; Lucas seems like he has common sense in the minus numbers. 

Renjun doesn't even know what to do with himself. Usually, under times of extreme pressure and stress, he makes endless cups of tea. Green, Earl Grey, Assam, whatever. Often, he doesn't even drink them. They just sit, stone cold, and then it's just a whole load of cups that need washing and more stress. 

More and more and _more_ stress. College is bad enough without that. College is bad enough without _Lucas_.

The thing about the other types of roommates that are simultaneously awful is that Renjun was pretty sure that they'd just leave him alone. A jock wouldn't want to drag a “loser” like him along to a party and the part-time philosopher, part-time bullshitter would be plenty more inclined to just stay cramped up in his own little corner. Lucas, on the other hand, is not so easily defined, and by that logic, isn't so easily convinced that Renjun can't simply be brought out of his shell by tagging along with Lucas to a party. 

“So you should tag along,” Lucas insists. It's been about three hours within their first meeting and Renjun’s roommate is already a way through his fourth bag of chips. “I'm not sure if they're your crowd, but if you, um, don't have any other friends, then…”

“Are you insinuating that I don't have any other friends?” 

“A little bit,” mumbles Lucas. “Do you?”

“In China,” Renjun replies, softly. “I have friends in China. But that's none of your fucking business and if you'd so kindly fuck off, I'd appreciate it greatly.”

Lucas smiles, clearly disheartened, but then just shrugs off the refusal and says, “I knew you'd say no. I just thought it was a good idea to ask – y'know, in case there was at least one percent of you that did want to go.”

“I'm here to study,” Renjun says, plainly. He walks over to his desk and sits down, plugging in his headphones almost immediately. He doesn't even have any work to do, but he pulls out a notebook anyway and starts writing random words. It makes him look like he's doing something when he actually isn't, and is his number one tactic in making people think he's smart. Not that he's _not_ smart, but _smarter_. 

“Why are you writing I’m literally going to die here on repeat?” Lucas asks. Yeah. The technique _usually_ works, provided that whoever he's in company with doesn't speak Chinese too. This is the problem with Americans. So nosy. Wait, is he even American? Renjun didn't ask. Renjun didn't even think to ask. 

“You're not American, are you?” Renjun says, quickly, pulling out his earphone. 

“No,” Lucas replies. His accent is convincing, though. “Hong Kong.”

“Thank God,” Renjun sighs. He puts his earphone back in and realises that everything might not be so fucked, but it's probably quite fucked. Lucas might be awful in every other way, but at least he's not American.

**2**

Everything gets worse when college actually starts. The essays and the lectures kick in, and Lucas only gets _worse_. Don't worry – it astounds Renjun, too. As if wrongly placed lamps and excessive of Renjun’s food could get worse. 

Number one – his friends. His _friends_. Renjun doesn't like to make assumptions about people from first impressions (lie – he totally does) but Mark is quite the first impression. Quite. _Quite_. 

“So you're, like, Chinese?” Mark asks.

“Yes,” Renjun answers. “Yes, I'm Chinese.”

“Woah.”

And it's not like Mark isn't _smart_ , but seriously. The follow-up question of, “Can I practice Mandarin with you?” isn't unexpected, but it seems a little unfair. He can't say no. He also doesn't want to say yes. Mark is crossing over into Renjun’s side of the room, Renjun’s life, when he should stay firmly in Lucas’ side of the room, in Lucas’ life. 

It's halfway through an unfocused essay on diabetes that Renjun understands that he isn't going to get out of this situation easily. He can't tell him to fuck off; that isn't fair. He can't him that he doesn't speak Mandarin. Wait, maybe he can.

“Sorry,” he lies. “I only speak Cantonese. Why can't you practice with Lucas? Your friend?”

“He doesn't like it when people ask,” Mark hums. 

“I'm still in the room, y’know?” Lucas grumbles, hand stuffed in a bag of salted popcorn. Give it ten minutes and he’ll be making instant ramen. “Wait. Let's play truth or dare!”

“I'm not twelve or drunk, so no thanks,” Renjun sighs. Lucas is laid across his bed, window cracked open as he smokes a cigarette between mouthfuls of popcorn, and Mark is cross-legged on the floor, Nintendo sat by his side, turned on but unused. The waste of battery is deeply upsetting to Renjun. He cracks his wrists and says to Lucas, “You’ll be the death of me.” He glances at Mark and adds, “Mark, too.”

“Surprisingly, I think Mark in Chinese is the same as Mark in English,” Lucas laughs. 

The only other friend that Renjun has met is possibly the nearest thing to a normal person that Renjun has met in college. He doesn't have any addictions, a clean criminal record, and, according to possibly unreliable sources, he attends every lecture without fail. He seems _way_ too in control. Renjun doesn't trust him.

So, Dejun. Dejun with the dark eyebrows and the pleasant smile and the humble job ambitions and the nice mother who sends him Tupperware packages of her cooking. Dejun, who for all Renjun knows could be a complete freak, bothers him with the seemingly effortless perfection he exudes. People like that should be – should be – well, it just isn't fair. It isn't right. They really are a great injustice to mankind.

It also begs the question how Lucas managed to become friends with him in the first place. Sure, Lucas is kind and open-minded and makes everybody and their mother love him, but he's also lazy and disorganised and basically the opposite of Dejun. Maybe he should try hanging out with his opposites too – there's a boy named Jaemin down the hall who seemed to know Mark, and maybe _he's_ the opposite of Renjun.

But more about Lucas. 

Number two – his strange and increasing obsession with self-help books. Renjun doesn't get the hype, honestly, but he isn't a big fan of any guru who thinks that they can fix his life with _mindfulness_ and _eating healthy_ and _sleeping more than three hours per night_ , because they don't understand. They don't understand the situation at all. He isn't drinking coffee because he's one of those weirdos who actually enjoys the taste. 

Though void of any textbooks that aren't Renjun's, their bookshelf is becoming increasingly full of those bullshit, _give me money and I'll tell you vegetables are good_ books. Pastel colours, nice front covers, but no substance. 

Plus, he keeps giving Renjun tips. Tips about how he's fucking everything up by not meditating twice a day. Tips about how he should go to bed earlier and make amends with the people he has bad blood with (the list is too long; it would take years) and honestly, Renjun is sick to the back teeth of it. 

Number three – he keeps stealing Renjun's cookie dough protein bars. This is a more petty reason, but then again, it pisses him off nonetheless.

Number four – wait, there isn't one. Give Renjun a cup of tea and five minutes and he'll think of another one eventually.

**3**

About three months into college and Lucas’ never-ending persistence, Renjun relents. 

“Fine. I'll go out with you,” sighs Renjun. There are only a select few number of circumstances that have led to this agreement – firstly, he has finished his hundredth essay (at least, that's what it feels like), and although that was total bullshit, it was necessary bullshit. Renjun's life is full of complete waffle, filling the empty void with meaningless words in place of real substance. Secondly, he had a haircut only two days prior (unlike Lucas, who cuts his hair without a mirror; people with exceptionally good looks are like that) and it makes a whole world of difference, even though it was only an inch or so. Thirdly, he promised Lucas that if he went this once, his roommate would stop eating his cookie dough bars (plus buy another few packets to make up for it). 

And that's the thing, isn't it? Renjun doesn't give in easily, despite the fact that there have been plenty of people who have tried, but it's unsurprising that Lucas was the one to do it. He's got too much spare time to nag at Renjun until he gives in.

“So what kind of party is it?” asks Renjun. “No hard drugs?”

“No! Jesus, no,” Lucas chuckles. “Only wine. But you don't have to drink that if you don't want to, it's – it's fine.”

“Huh? What kind of party is it?” Renjun asks. “Who’ll be there?” Hopefully Dejun. Mark is alright, but he's not exactly Renjun’s _favourite_ person in the whole world. “Anybody that I know?”

“Oh, maybe,” Lucas hums, a little cryptically. “Dejun. I reckon there’ll be a few more students, but it's not all students.” He stretches out. Renjun suddenly notices that he's wearing a decent shirt for the first time in, say, three months. Like, a really nice shirt. Not just decent, Renjun supposes. He clearly notices that Renjun is staring, and says, “It's from my mom.”

“She has good taste,” comments Renjun.

“I think that's the closest thing to a compliment that you've ever said,” Lucas laughs. “Well done.”

Renjun swallows. “That's not on record.”

“What a shame. I should've filmed it,” Lucas says. Red silk melts over the flat of his stomach, spilling over the denim of his jeans, and Renjun doesn't really know how to respond. He's not that mean, is he? “Party. We can't be late.”

“This sounds more like a formal thing,” Renjun groans. “Wait. Should I bring wine?”

“You can't buy wine.”

“Oh, yeah,” he yawns. “Right. Well, then.”

And that's it. Renjun tries to find an outfit that isn't completely awful (not so difficult, but he certainly owns more graphic t-shirts than he thought he does) because this clearly isn't some sort of event that Renjun can easily brush off. Lucas has _never_ worn a proper shirt in his life, and Renjun has only known him for a quarter of a year. He just gives off that vibe, as well as a cloud of Axe so thick that it might as well be an exoskeleton.

He settles with a loose white shirt and a pair of black trousers. Renjun hopes they don't rank them on creativity, as he'd most definitely lose.

“Oh, Dejun is giving us a ride,” Lucas adds. 

“And he fucking drives too? Jesus,” Renjun mutters. “Some people.” 

The worst part is that Dejun has a nice car, too. “It's really not important, whether the seats are heated or not. It doesn't matter to me.”

“You're humble,” Renjun scoffs. He sits in the back of the car, feeling a little claustrophobic – he doesn't _know_ these people. Not well, at least. He's not fully comfortable around anybody, let alone near strangers (specifically Dejun, despite all of his niceties), and now it's even worse. He's got a stormy headache brewing and it's only getting worse. He can't drink tonight; it'll only get worse. 

“It's nice to see a new face,” Dejun sing-songs. “Lucas can be very persuasive. Hey, it's okay. I know how it is.”

“I've known Dejun since I moved to America,” Lucas explains. “We’ve been through _everything_. Well, everything that can happen in three years.” He tightens his seatbelt. “Every phase. The wannabe rock star. The rapper. The –”

“That's quite enough,” Dejun says. “Kun's house is only a short drive away.”

“Why not Ten's apartment?” Lucas asks.

“His landlord said that he should stop burning so many candles. It's a fire hazard and the neighbours said that the place stunk of eucalyptus,” Dejun states. “Kun's house is nicer, anyway.”

“Sorry, who are these people?” asks Renjun. “And is this guy’s name _actually_ Ten or am I just severely mistranslating?”

“Oh, just friends,” Dejun replies. “They'll like you. Did Lucas tell you much about us?”

Renjun shrugs, though it's not like Dejun can see him, so it's a bit pointless. Besides, everyone is being so fucking ominous it's like he's joining the bloody Illuminati. Jesus Christ. If this a party, it doesn't sound like much fun. Wait, is it a political party? He's not becoming a Republican accidentally, is he? Is _that_ Dejun's fatal flaw?

Also, _they'll like you_? Creepy. Creepy as fuck. Lucas’ presence, however, makes this easier – he's too fucking goofy to take seriously, unlike Dejun, who sounds like he's some kind of gangster. 

“Nearly there,” Dejun states. “Well? Renjun?”

“No. I'm a blank slate,” Renjun lies. He already has his prejudiced preconceptions. The gravel crunches under the wheels of the car and Renjun holds his breath, nervously anticipating either the weirdest or worst night of his life. Either or.


	2. Chapter 2

**1**

The first person that Renjun meets – not Dejun or Lucas, that is – is a man with neatly parted hair, white teeth and a nice suit that his dad would probably wear. Maybe, just _maybe_ , it's even a bit nicer than that. Speaking of his smile, it's bright enough that it reminds Renjun of those cheesy commercials and those over-enthusiastic presenters. Kun makes him want to buy laundry detergent, and Renjun doesn't even own a washing machine.

Renjun doesn't really know what to do. They greet each other awkwardly, though Kun doesn't seem too dismayed by Renjun's outrageous nervousness, and while he's nice, he’s simultaneously creepy. The whole setup is creepy. Canapés on the table that nobody is eating. Too many wine glasses. The outfits. Does Lucas think that this is a party? Seriously? If so, Renjun may feel slightly cooler than at least one person. It doesn't matter, Renjun tells himself – the longer he thinks about it, anyway, the more eyes begin to gravitate towards him, like they can _smell_ his fear. 

The living room is surely grand, there's no doubt. A large crystalline chandelier looms over their heads, connected to an intricately detailed gold base secured to the ceiling. The floorboards are waxed until they resemble mirrors. Every surface is so free of dust or surface grime that it's almost as though it was unpacked especially for this event. What is this, anyway? Is this a regular thing? How the Hell did _Lucas_ end up coming here? And now him?

Is it a pyramid scheme? Maybe. Kun has the necessary charm and slight awkwardness that makes him seem relatable, so he'd be perfect at selling a scam. Maybe Renjun would even buy into it. Maybe _he's_ just another sucker. Everyone talks among themselves, so he just stands, staring at the bookcase like he's interested, and waits for something. Anything. If there were hard drugs, maybe he wouldn't be bored out of his mind.

And, like this couldn't get any _worse_ , somebody taps a spoon against a crystal glass, summoning their attention in the most ridiculous and laughably pretentious way possible. These people really can't get any more pompous, can they?

The person summoning their attention is not, in fact, Kun. It's somebody different, with sharper cheekbones and a more venomous glare – but only for a second. When he drags himself back into the moment, the speaker regains the same amount of comfortable confidence that everybody else in the room has. Renjun supposes he's the exception to the rule.

“It's so lovely that you've all come to our monthly meeting,” he says. “I see plenty of familiar faces. Kun, my wonderful right-hand. Dejun! How lovely. Have you got new glasses? They look spectacular.” He pauses, and runs his eyes across everybody else. They are all standing around, Renjun hovering nervously, and waiting for acknowledgement. This is, quite honestly, degrading. “Lucas, it's brilliant to see you again. I hope you've gotten those grades up. Success doesn't happen in a day.”

Now, that has to be quoted wrong. Renjun isn't an expert, but that isn't the right way to say it, is it? God. 

“Sicheng,” the man says. He gives him an affectionate look. “Your hair looks fabulous.” Sicheng, Renjun presumes, tucks a strand of hair behind his ear nervously. What is with this people and becoming quivering messes when this person merely says their name? 

“And Yangyang! That suit is wonderful, may I say – you simply _must_ give me the name of your tailor,” he laughs. Yangyang laughs, too, but with an edge of uncertainty in his voice, as if asking _should I laugh, too?_ The man's eyes focus on Renjun and the boy next to him, shuffling his feet and avoiding eye contact as desperately as he can. 

“Newcomers, too! Well, we welcome everybody with open arms,” he says, a little too enthusiastically. _It isn't that deep_ , Renjun thinks. “I'm Ten.” Oh, right. Huh.

“Is that your real name?” Renjun asks. For some reason, everybody seems shocked. If they'd have told him earlier, maybe he wouldn't have had to ask – but it's hardly _rude_ , is It? If everyone was offended by such simple questions, the world would be a total mess. 

“No. It's Chittaphon, but Ten is generally easier to pronounce,” he states. “And _your_ name is?”

“Renjun,” he replies. “To be honest, I'm only here because I'm curious. Not to be rude, but I don't really get this. No offence.”

“None taken,” Ten reassures. He turns to the other boy. “And your name?”

“Oh! Um, it's Kunhang,” he answers promptly. His speech is jittery and awkward, choking up the butterflies in his stomach, and he can hardly even raise his eyes from his shined shoes. Ten steps forward, extending a slim finger and pressing it beneath Kunhang's chin, raising it so that he meets Ten's eyes, just mere inches from his face. 

Ten smirks. “Cute.”

Kunhang visibly swallows. “I just thought that your books were amazing, and,” he mutters, “they really helped me.”

Books? This guy’s an author? No offence, but he doesn't really seem the _type_ – at least, Renjun’s general impression of authors is that they're old, brooding, and bearded. Usually, they're scraping by on canned food and cigarettes, not living in _mansions_. Then again, this isn't even Ten's house, so the only thing Renjun can use to assume his financial status is his designer suit. That seems a dead giveaway. Maybe he shouldn't be so quick to judge.

“That's the idea,” Ten laughs. “Let's all sit in the living room.” Like a group of chicks following after their mother, they all flock in correspondence to Ten's movement, and arrive in another exponentially big – and needlessly decorated – room, this time with _more_ wine and a pile of books neatly arranged on the long table. It takes Renjun a second before he realises that Lucas has this book, too. 

Right. Wait, what? “Don't you have this book, Lucas?” Renjun asks. He reaches out and picks up a copy. Much to his surprise, the author reads _Ten_. It makes sense, but it takes Renjun aback. They all sit down in sequence, always glancing back to the apparent leader with the slick hair and the slender body. It's like some kind of strange hive mind, all linked to each other in a way that, quite frankly, makes Renjun’s anxiety skyrocket.

Lucas simply smiles. “I really should’ve explained this better, huh?”

“Maybe,” Renjun mutters. Much to his comfort, Lucas sits to his side, wrapping an arm around Renjun's shoulders. He's strangely brazen like that. “It's just – I don't know, I didn't figure. It's not your fault.”

“Wow. Astonishing. You’ve changed, Renjun,” Lucas whispers. There are slight murmurs throughout the room, nothing significant. “It's a bit confusing at first, and it took me a while to get used to it. Dejun was really convincing, though he says _I_ am.” He stretches his arms out. “Keep an open mind, ‘kay? If that's possible, of course.”

“Not a chance,” Renjun yawns. “Haven't I told you about my undying hatred for people who think they know me better than I know myself?” It's not the worst thing Renjun has ever said by any stretch of a mile, but of _course_ everybody decides to stop talking as soon as he says that (which was _totally_ about Ten). They all glance at him as though he's insane. Have they seen themselves? It's the complete lack of self-awareness that makes Renjun feels like he's going insane. 

“So, there's plenty to discuss today,” Ten says, after clearing his throat. “I'm thinking that we should start by discussing something productive we’ve done this week. I'm sure there's something that everybody can say.”

“I cleaned my entire house,” Kunhang splutters. “I don't know why. I just – just felt like I had to, so I did.”

“Well, that's something to be proud of,” Ten congratulates. They all clap softly. “What about you, Kun?”

Renjun rolls his eyes. _These people are all so dull_ , he thinks.

**2**

Suffice to say, Renjun doesn't get it. He doesn't get why this is such an appealing lifestyle, glossing over the problems in your life and presenting a shiny picture to the world. He doesn't get why Lucas gets it. He doesn't get why _anybody_ thinks that it's so simple to just become a better person.

The thing is, Lucas _has_ gotten better. That's the scary thing – well, not scary. There's absolutely nothing to say that this anything more than Lucas sitting back, reflecting, and realising that wanking in the same room as Renjun is probably not a fun experience for his roommate on any occasion. There's no circumstance under which that is an acceptable decision to make. There's also something to be said when along with Yuri, Lucas sticks a Polaroid of him and Ten smiling like they've just discussed breathing exercises for an hour straight.

There's something a little strange about the contrast between the lavish lifestyle and the three o'clock wake-ups and yoga; that isn't fun, and it doesn't make sense. No student is living the glamorous lifestyle that a best-selling author is. Money, dedication, all that bullshit – it doesn't make sense. Ten doesn't make sense. The problem is, Renjun likes the idea of being the perfect person.

Maybe that's not actually a problem. Maybe there's no real issue with being like that. It just feels like he's sacrificing a part of his soul – honestly, it's kind of freaking him out. Whenever he sees Lucas doing sit-ups or buying oranges, it makes him feel like the world is actually coming to and end. _This_ is the apocalypse. Jesus.

“How did Dejun get into this?” Renjun asks, while Lucas is energetically doing sit-ups on the carpet. “What is _this_? Like, some sort of community? How did it start? Is there a website?”

“A website? Yeah, I think so,” says Lucas, in-between sporadic spurts of breath. “But the meetups are, like, a Massachusetts thing. Ten moved from Cali, like, a year ago.” He pauses. “It's a community. We help each other improve, y'know? We give each other tips.”

“Right,” Renjun sighs. “And is it working? Can you feel yourself becoming more moral and perfect by the day?”

“Hey, don't be such a critic,” Lucas groans. He sits up and meets Renjun in the eye. “I have become better, y’know. It takes a while; you just have to be patient.”

“I'm waiting,” Renjun says. “But this? This is a bit strange. Come on.”

“It's not strange to want to sort your life out.”

Renjun sighs. “That's not what I meant,” he says. “Just the whole meeting and shit. Kinda felt a bit off. Boring, if not weird. I mean, what's with this Ten guy? He seems like he knows what he's doing, but _still_. How experienced can he be? He's, like, twenty-five.” 

“Renjun! Don't be so rude.”

“What? It's true. Besides, what makes him so different from all the other gurus? What separates him? I mean, my own _grandma_ could tell me that I should exercise more,” Renjun deadpans. It could be a scam. A very strange, slightly helpful (yet not really) scam. It just seems completely off. “I just don't know.”

“You can't live your life hating and doubting everybody,” Lucas snaps. “If you'd just wake up and stop thinking that everything is a lie, maybe your life would be a lot happier.”

“My life is happy.”

“Well, is it really?” Lucas asks. “It's more than just Ten.”

“Oh, yeah. There's Kun, the guy who looks like a lawyer, and Kunhang, who looks like he's one day off of a mental breakdown.”

“Nice of you to say,” Lucas hums. “This is why you need to learn to be nice to people.”

“It's not like it's factually inaccurate,” Renjun sighs. “What’s his deal, anyway?”

“He was new. I dunno,” Lucas replies. “He wasn't that bad.”

“He was on crack!”

“People like Ten,” Lucas sighs. “We're just lucky to be able to talk to him so freely. It's not surprising that somebody's in love with him.”

“Well, are you?”

Lucas shrugs. “It's hard to tell. Admiration and attraction and affection are confusing. Anyway, you should probably head to your lecture.” He smiles a little too brightly for a person who misses plenty of lectures _all_ the time.

**3**

Renjun figures that Ten _has_ to be more than just a well-meaning guru. Call it reasonable doubt or Renjun's cynical nature, but there _has_ to be something. 

Google is decidedly unhelpful. He tries searching his real name, too, and while there are plenty of harmless articles about how he's some kind of miracle worker, Renjun can't find much that says the opposite. It seems unlikely that somebody could be _that_ well-liked, no matter how much of an apparent godsend their books are, and although he agreed to attend the next month's meeting with Lucas (out of sheer intellectual curiosity, not _interest_ ), Renjun supposes that the only way to _truly_ form his opinion on Ten, outside of meaningless discussions on “bad energy”, he has to take it from the man himself.

It's not difficult to find his telephone number. Lucas has a list of _all_ of their numbers stuffed in his bedroom drawer, along with a box of tissues and an opened packet of cookies, and Renjun has no real issue with rooting around while Lucas isn't in the dorm. It doesn't even mind how strange this might come across to Ten, but _he_ is hardly one to talk.

To Renjun's surprise, he picks up after the first ring. With an inquisitive, almost accusative tone, he asks, “I'm assuming that this is Renjun Huang?”

 _But I didn't even speak_ , he thinks. “How’d you know?”

“It was a guess,” Ten says, “but I'm right, aren't I?”

“Yes. What a gift,” Renjun drawls.

“I know. Now, are you just checking in, or do you want a conversation?” Ten asks. “I don't like speaking over the phone. It seems impersonal, and I have a moderate to high fear of wiretapping.” 

Oh, of course. What good is a off-kilter hippie if he doesn't have a dislike of the government? “I can come over. I'm free for the rest of the day,” Renjun states. “Where's your apartment?”

“I'll send a taxi. Don't worry.”

“Huh? How do you know where I live?” Renjun asks. 

“Considering you're Lucas’ roommate, it wasn't difficult to guess,” Ten says. “I'll see you soon, then?” 

“Sure,” says Renjun, attempting to be casual. He doesn't _feel_ casual. This guy’s totally loopy. 

When Renjun arrives at the apartment, it just seems imperfectly normal. If he's so successful, why does he live here? It's just so _average_. The hallway is dirty, the elevator is decorated with walls of graffiti, and it smells like piss. Great. Honestly, the eucalyptus candles seem like a dream come true right now.

“Renjun,” he hears. Ten leans against the wall and meets his eyes. “It's nice to meet you again.” This time, he doesn't shake his hand. Renjun assumes that he should just follow him into the apartment, the heady cloud of incense and perfume immediately fogging up Renjun's head. Ten says something, but Renjun can't even hear over the mystifying music that floods from his stereo. Renjun can't tell if it's singing or instruments or whatever, but it's kind of annoying. 

Fortunately, Ten walks over to the low table and turns the volume right down. It's a relief, and it also gives him ample time to glance over the apartment. Posters of old-timey bands that Renjun wouldn't be able to put a name to, religious iconography, crystals, scarves draped across the walls and several boxes of the same surreal books. “I've got to send them off,” Ten says. “Eventually. So, Renjun. Do you want something to drink? Beer? Chamomile? Cola? Or just water, even.”

“Water’s fine,” Renjun says. Ten walks over to the sink and fills up a cup, handing it to Renjun immediately after. “So, this place. It's nice.”

Ten sighs. “It's not the dream.”

“No. I wouldn't say so,” Renjun comments. 

“I don't strictly _live_ here, per se,” Ten says. “It's just a place. Kun and I live in the same house.”

“Are you…?”

“Dating? No. It's just a professional thing,” Ten states. “I use this place as, like, a workspace. It's got everything I need.” He smiles. “Sometimes, I go here when I need privacy. Kun is nice and all, but sometimes it's better to have, like, _real_ privacy.” He laughs softly. His eyes are oddly comforting. “Anyway, you wanted to speak to me about something, didn't you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Renjun says. “You seem a lot nicer one on one. Y’know, you seemed pretty stuck up your own ass.”

“Ah?” Ten laughs. “Right. Constructive criticism is nice. I'll bear that in mind.” They both sit down on floor cushions, Ten reaching for a bottle of beer from a cabinet before he does. “It's a vice, alcohol. I'd quit, but we all have our flaws.”

Renjun frowns. “Aren't you all about, like, being godly or something? It seems like you're some kind of otherworldly being, so quitting drinking can't be _that_ difficult, right?” 

“I'm not perfect.”

“I figured,” Renjun states. “Alcohol isn't the worst thing in the world.”

“Well, yes. But I hate drugs,” Ten says, “and people who take them. They’re disgusting. Seriously, _don't_ take them.” He's a hippie who _doesn't_ smoke weed? Wow. Ten may well just be an enigma. Renjun immediately notices the fallacy in his logic, but it's not worth pointing it out. Eventually, he'll realise that there's no real difference between getting addicted to cigarettes and alcohol or drugs – what's the difference? How ridiculous. 

“So, how'd you get into this?” Renjun asks. “This whole, um, self-help thing. It's a bit of a bizarre career choice.” He stares into his cup of water. “I guess I've never really thought it was _worthwhile_ to read books like that.”

Ten chuckles. “I was like you, actually. I thought it was all bullshit.”

“I'm not _that_ judgemental. Besides, I've hardly even read it. So, what is it? Do you write about astrology and intuitive eating?” Renjun asks. “Whatever floats your boat, I mean.”

“No. It's more about, like, understanding yourself,” Ten states. “The title _All About You_ is a dead giveaway. Anyway, like I said, I _was_ like you. I smoked and drank and took things that I shouldn't have. That's why I know it's bad to be like that. I was in a bad place, did a lot of bad things, and…” He sighs. “I just want to make sure people don't follow the same path as me. The thing is, people tend to follow me because they understand my position. It's okay if you don't, but I would like you to.” 

“Huh? Why me?”

Ten bites his lip. “You're lost.”

“I'm not,” he says. “I'm in Massachusetts.”

“Look, you know what I mean,” Ten groans. “Just read the book.” He leans over to a box and hands Renjun a copy. “Even if you hate it, you might gain at least _one_ thing from it. And you should keep coming to our meetings.”

“Right,” sighs Renjun. “Okay. I will.” Maybe he should give it a shot – it can't be _that_ bad. “I'll call you once I've finished. Thanks.”

**Author's Note:**

> hey im mars and im bored


End file.
